Joy came always after pain.

Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.

But there is nothing enduring in the world, and therefore even joy in the second minute is already not as acute as in the first; in the third minute it becomes still weaker and finally merges unnoticeably with the usual condition of the soul, as a circle on the water, caused by the fall of a pebble, finally merges with the smooth surface.

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being,
the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potters oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirits the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature's monotony.